“I’m not offended,” I returned, leading the way to the house, imagining with a keen pain that Harold Beecham must be wondering how for an instant he could have been foolish enough to fancy such an object two years ago.

Thank goodness I have never felt any humiliation on account of my mother, and felt none then, as she rose to greet Harold upon my introduction.  She was a lady, and looked it, in spite of the piles of coarse mending, and the pair of trousers, almost bullet-proof with patches, out of which she drew her hand, roughened and reddened with hard labour, in spite of her patched and faded cotton gown, and the commonest and most poverty-stricken of peasant surroundings, which failed to hide that she had not been always thus.

Leaving them together, I expeditiously proceeded to relieve the livery-stable horse, on which Harold had come, of the valise, saddle, and bridle with which it was encumbered, and then let it loose in one of the grassless paddocks near at hand.

Then I threw myself on a stool in the kitchen, and felt, to the bone, the sting of having ideas above one’s position.

In a few minutes mother came hurrying out.

“Good gracious, what’s the matter?  I suppose you didn’t like being caught in such a pickle, but don’t get in the dumps about it.  I’ll get him some tea while you clean yourself, and then you’ll be able to help me by and by.”

I found my little sister Aurora, and we climbed through the window into my bedroom to get tidy.  I put a pair of white socks and shoes and a clean pinafore on the little girl, and combed her golden curls.  She was all mine—­slept with me, obeyed me, championed me; while I—­well, I worshipped her.

There was a hole in the wall, and through it I could see without being seen.

Mother was dispensing afternoon tea and talking to Harold.  It was pleasant to see that manly figure once again.  My spirits rose considerably.  After all, if the place was poor, it was very clean, as I had scrubbed it all that morning, and when I came to consider the matter, I remembered that men weren’t such terrible creatures, and never made one feel the sting of one’s poverty half as much as women do.

“Aurora,” I said, I want you to go out and tell Mr Beecham something.

The little girl assented.  I carefully instructed her in what she was to say, and dispatched her.  She placed herself in front of Harold—­a wide-eyed mite of four, that scarcely reached above his knee—­and clasping her chubby hands behind her, gazed at him fearlessly and unwinkingly.

“Aurora, you mustn’t stand staring like that,” said mother.

“Yes, I must,” she replied confidently.

“Well, and what’s your name?” said Harold laughingly.

“Aurora and Roy.  I belong to Sybyller, and got to tell you somesing.”

“Have you?  Let’s hear it.”

“Sybyller says you’s Mr Beecher; when you’re done tea, you’d like me if I would to ’scort you to farver and the boys, and ’duce you.”